Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

Alive. All of us, alive.

I look down at Hector. Sleep has softened his features. He seems so peaceful. So young. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m tracing the line of his eyebrow with my fingertips, trailing down his cheek, to the shadow of his cheekbone, where a drop of blood has welled. It’s caused by a splinter; it must have speared into him when the tornado hit.

Alarmed, I look closer to make sure he breathes. Where there is one splinter, there could be more. There could be a whole plank, impaled in . . .

His eyelids flutter.

“Hector?”

When he sees me, he shudders with relief. “We’re alive,” he whispers.

“I did order you to live, after all.”

He sits up and looks around. “How?”

“I have no idea. Something to do with everyone’s prayers, I think, channeled by my Godstone. Be still. I have to pull this out.” I brace his chin with one hand and reach for the splinter with the other. Just enough protrudes for me to grip it with my fingertips. I pull gently but steadily, trying to keep to the exact angle of entry.

He gazes at me without flinching.

The splinter is longer than I thought—the length of the first joint of my forefinger—and a good bit of blood wells up after it. I toss it to the deck.

I’m about to wipe the blood away with my fingers but he traps them, lifts them to his mouth, kisses them. “I thought we were going to die after all,” he says. “Right there at the end.”

I think about the way he held me, the way we prayed. I remember his fingers on my Godstone, on my skin . And I remember what he said.

I blink hard against tears. “You might have saved me. Saved us all. I don’t know how the Godstone’s power works yet, or how we survived, but you kept me focused.”

His gaze drops to my lips. “I shouldn’t do this—”

“You really should.” And I close the distance between us.

His lips on mine are so sweet, so gentle, like he’s savoring me. Learning me. But he doesn’t linger there. Instead he kisses the corner of my mouth, my cheek, the tip of my nose. Then he leans back to regard me. His eyes are steady and frank when he says, “I don’t regret telling you what I did.”

“That’s good, because you did say it, and I can’t unknow it.”

He lifts an eyebrow, smugly amused, and I marvel that for all his usual stoicism, he seems unashamed to have exposed something so personal. “And I can’t unfeel it,” he says. “I won’t let it interfere with my work. Even though I expect things will be . . . difficult.”

“Oh, yes,” I agree. “Very difficult.”

“Land!” someone yells. “Dead ahead!”

We jump to our feet. People stir all around us. There is no sign of the storm. The sky is beautiful and clear, and the water dances lightly, teased by a breeze. I could almost convince myself I imagined the whole thing.

Except that the Aracely is a disaster, especially the port side, which has a huge, uneven gouge in the hull where planking was ripped away. Only one sail remains intact, and we sit much too low in the water. In the distance a bluish lump looms on the horizon, and the tug on my Godstone is stronger than ever, pulling me toward it. I just hope the ship holds together long enough to get there.

“We should check on everyone,” I say.

He nods. “See to Mara. I’ll look for Storm and Belén.”

We part, reluctantly, me for the captain’s quarters, Hector for the lower deck.

The quarters are in shambles. Paintings and bits of furniture litter the floor, water streaks the walls, and the glass in one of the portholes is shattered, its jagged edges sparking in the sunlight.

Mara huddles on her side in the middle of the bed, her knees curled to her chest.

She looks up when I enter but does not move. “You’re alive,” she says, and it’s almost like a sob.

Something is wrong. I rush over to her. “What is it, Mara? Are you hurt?” I brush the hair away from her face. “We hit a tornado, and—”

“Belén? Is he all right?”

“Hector is checking on him. Mara, tell me.”

“My scar. It split open again. The ship tipped so far that I had to hang from the side of the bed. . . .”

“Let me see.”

“I’m afraid to move. Elisa, I think it’s bad.” She lifts the hand cradling her stomach and shows it to me. It’s covered in blood.

My heart sinks. “I might be able to stitch it. I watched Cosmé do it often enough. Or Belén! He’s done it lots of times. Did you bring your salve?”

She nods. “In the satchel.”

I look around frantically for it. Who knows where it ended up after the storm, or if its contents are still intact? I note my own pack, lodged between the fallen chair and a broken shelf. I give a worried thought to the figurine, hoping it didn’t break.

“Do you remember where you saw it last? I can’t . . .” Then I get another idea.

I take a deep breath against the audacity of it. Could I heal her? The way I did Hector? That was sort of an accident. Actually, everything I’ve ever done with the Godstone has been sort of an accident. But I came here, put everyone to extraordinary risk, on the chance that I could figure out how to channel its power deliberately.

“Mara, give me your hands. I’m going to try something.”

She does, her gaze trusting. I grab them, trying to ignore how cold and slick they are with her blood.

“Er . . . close your eyes and relax. Hector was unconscious when I did it to him.”

She closes them.

Think, Elisa!

When I healed Hector, I felt the power stir inside me, sucked in from the world around us through my Godstone. I try to imagine it, the sensation of something flowing, filling me up. Please, God. Help me.

The power surges into me like a flood, and I gasp, delighted. So easy this time. So natural and right.

I say, “For the righteous right hand of God is a healing hand; blessed is he who seeks renewal, for he shall be restored.”

Nothing.

Last time, it happened out of desperation and need. Out of love. Maybe love is the trick.

I focus hard, thinking about what Mara means to me. I consider her brave acceptance of the danger we share, her determination to learn everything she needs to be a good lady’s maid. I’ve watched her edge away from the shy, broken girl whose village had just been destroyed to become a cheerful, laughing person, resolved to embrace her new life.

Mara is precious to me. I love her.

I whisper, “For love is more beautiful than rubies, sweeter than honey, finer than the king’s wine. And no one has greater love than he who gives his own life for a friend.”

The power is rushing out of me even before I finish. Mara stretches out her legs, arches her back as her face contorts in agony, and I lurch forward, worried that I’ve made things worse. But then her body goes limp. After a few panting breaths, her face relaxes into an easy smile.

“I think it worked,” she says. Gently she probes her stomach with her fingertips. “It hurt, but it worked.”

My breath catches with relief. So much easier this time. Maybe it’s my proximity to the zafira . Or maybe I am finally learning to channel my stone’s power. “That’s good,” I say. “That’s very . . .” My head swims. “Just need to lie . . .” I collapse onto the bed.

I wake to a sea of faces. I blink up at them, recognizing Hector, Felix, Mara, Belén. “Stop hovering,” I growl sleepily.

They lurch away, except for Hector, who says, “Are you all right?”

His hair is mussed, his eyes huge. He seems so young all of a sudden, so unsure. It’s definitely not a good idea to wrap my arms around his neck and force him to kiss me in front of the others. “I’m fine. Tired but fine.” I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Mara?”